


Loving is Money in the Hand

by coyotes



Category: BioShock
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Schmoop, i hope youre allowed to use tags on ao3 like you do tumblr tags, just a tiny thing before bed, they dance and jack is drunk, wow i think i might have actually written jack/atlas that wasnt mildly disgusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotes/pseuds/coyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... So it was no surprise to anyone (anyone being Atlas, of course) that after having one drink handed to him, a few swigs down the gullet later the kid could barely keep himself afloat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving is Money in the Hand

Jack was a lightweight. He’d never admit to that little detail, but he was. 

So it was no surprise to anyone (anyone being Atlas, of course) that after having one drink handed to him, a few swigs down the gullet later the kid could barely keep himself afloat. Caught in the space between euphoric and lethargic. 

He could tell Jack wasn’t seeing straight, and probably wouldn’t for a long time. He was wearing the shittiest grin as if he thought he knew some divine secret but in reality, knew absolutely _nothing_ , overall being an utter embarrassment to his image. But that hardly counted when it was just the two of them.

…

Jack’s cheeks held a weak flush, neck of a bottle in one hand, other on the arm of the padded chair. He’d never felt so loose, so much like a balloon in every sense of it; bright and colorful and light -- _perfect_ , he felt _perfect_. He’d forgotten what the pull at the corners of his lips was, what that signaled, but eventually it came to him…slowly; he understood that he was smiling. Teeth bared in a way far from threatening, teeth not gritted just so because of a swift smack to the head of a Splicer via wrench, but of joy. 

He was leaning so far back into the chair he was sure that, well, he’d be sucked into it, for one thing, but he’d also forget about Atlas, and that suddenly seemed like a horrible thing to do. 

Had he ever entirely enjoyed the company of Atlas after he’d found out that he was Fontaine? No. He wanted to, but wanting to was never good enough to keep his thoughts from running with just how backwards their entire relationship was.

Atlas had betrayed him, had been there for him – everything in between. Jack hated Fontaine, but couldn’t help that he’d imprinted on Atlas like a duck that barely knew how to swim. 

Atlas had made him _swim_. 

It was… difficult, forgetting that. 

Nothing could break the grin plastered onto his face, but the grimace he felt try to breach the surface was all too there for his comfort. Jack focused on the room instead, took in Rapture for all it was here; not something grand, in a dimly lit room with an ashtray that spouted a thin tendril of smoke into the air, curling and curling until it faded, blue glows filtering everywhere they could over the window into a failed watery utopia. 

There were plenty of places to go if one was looking for grandeur and Rapture at its best, and that was not here. This was a place to relax, fall back into things not as overwhelming as wide open spaces filled with shops and statues, towering glass walls where whales would swim on by. 

At least, in the glory days, or whatever. Jack had never seen the golden days, just the broken bits of rubble left behind and the horrible people that resided here.

But Atlas had taken him in, and Jack had accepted his supposed new role as the heir of Rapture. Had taken his place beside Atlas but in _front_ of him, arms tied to strings that Atlas plucked of his own will. But that was okay, he had a shelter and food and company of a man that at least pretended to care for him when he was feeling nice. Atlas hadn’t been Fontaine in a while.

If that made any sense at all.

Jack was sick of moping, he was drunk and he was warm, and now seemed like a better time than ever to pull the heavy thoughts from his mind and let himself soar. 

Or something. 

The kid got to his feet, swayed for a moment as his surroundings distorted in front of him, eyes going cross for all of a second. Atlas was saying something, a comment about how he looked like he was about to topple over himself or something, but Jack just huffed at him and continued on his merry way, searching around for what he wanted.

Ah. There it was. Sitting on the table. Jack fell to his knees beside it, focused on the radio. The music had been playing low, low enough that Jack had overlooked it before now, and he touched at the knobs until the volume grew enough to fill the room with song. 

He would have wondered who was even running the stations down here and how it was getting frequency, but Jack was a little over four years old and he didn’t quite care or know enough about radios to pipe up about it.

When he stood up again, it was only to face Atlas and hold out his hand, chains a dark contrast to his wrist as he held his palm out to the man. His features were suddenly grim and serious, he pulled off the sober look well.

“Dance with me.”

…

This chance would only ever come if Jack was drunk.

Atlas took it.

…

Jack didn’t know the song, but he didn’t have to. It wouldn’t have been any better if he had, being drunk might have given him two left feet, but his fingers were around Atlas’ and their palms were pressed together, cheek squished against the Irishman’s shoulder. 

Atlas was strangely silent, and the voice of someone who was either living on the surface or dead down in Rapture echoed through the room – something about the sea. It was soothing, and Jack exhaled through his nose. 

…

“Did you ever care about me?”

“You were worth the money, kid.” 

Jack was silent for a while after that, but Atlas didn’t let him go. Jack didn’t try to separate either. 

“You gave me a nice life in Kansas.”

“Couldn’t have you comin’ back to Rapture damaged now, could we?” 

“Damaged?”

“In the head, Jackie.”

Didn't matter much anymore.

…

Getting a straight answer out of a conman was hard, so hard that he simply gave up. It hadn’t taken many questions and comments, Jack was too easily lulled by repetitive motion and a cheery tune, but they still hadn’t let each other go. Atlas didn’t care, couldn’t have; but he was damn good at pretending he did. Good enough to keep Jack on his side like a dog told to heel. 

He was under the illusion that maybe, maybe he _did_ care, under all of that. Not deep enough to be Fontaine, because if there was one creature that didn’t care, it was Fontaine. Jack couldn’t tell, but it didn’t much matter as long as he cared _for_ him. About him? No; Jack could deal with that. He’d bear that weight until he burst. 

All he wished was that Atlas cared as much as he did, sometimes.


End file.
